


Interlude 2: Shadows

by ameliacareful



Series: Massa Carnis [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode s1e16 Shadows, M/M, Sam is a slave, Sam-Centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 07:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12836502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliacareful/pseuds/ameliacareful
Summary: Sam gets a rough introduction to hunting and demons.





	Interlude 2: Shadows

(now)

 

            When Meg slams Sam into the wall, he wonders if he should reconsider his life choices. Well, he doesn’t really wonder because honestly he doesn’t have a whole lot of life choices and he is scared out of his mind. But the phrase crosses his mind, that little part of his brain that is always watching and figuring, it says, ‘Is this really how you want to spend the rest of your tiny life, dude?’ It’s a different kind of fear than the usual low level fear of screwing something up and getting in trouble. It’s all-hands-on-deck, heart going like mad, can’t think terror.

            Then he can’t breathe. He opens his mouth and tries to suck air in but his throat is locked.

 

(then)

 

            “Yeah,” Dean says to his phone, “Good to know.” He finishes the call and says to Sam, “Dad says the vic was missing her heart.”

            “What does that mean? What snacks on hearts?” Sam asks. He is trying to figure out when to talk and when not to. Dean likes him to talk sometimes. Likes snark.

            “Usually we’d think werewolf, but the lunar cycles don’t match,” Dean says.

            Remember ‘lunar cycles’ and ‘werewolf’ Sam thought. He wasn’t sure what a _lunar cycle_ was but he could look it up later.

            They were standing in the girl’s apartment. The landlady had said Meredith was not only dead, she was in pieces.

            “So…not a werewolf,” Dean mused.

            Sam tried to study the apartment with an objective eye. There are blood stains on the rug and things have been turned over. It smells like a dead body, that weird slightly sweet, old garbage smell. Sam swallows his nausea.

            “Hey Sam,” Dean says. He is studying the blood stains. “See if you can find some tape.”

            Sam has no idea where to look for tape but he heads to the kitchen and starts opening drawers. Free people have so much stuff. So much silverware for one person, and a drawer full of spatulas and weird shit. He’s intrigued by the thing with the loopy wires and thinks briefly about asking Dean finds a roll of masking tape and Dean squats and starts at the biggest spot and puts a long piece of tape connecting it to the next spot.

            He takes his time, stopping and looking at it like he sees something that Sam can’t. When he’s done there’s a kind of spiral-looking thing going on.

            “That look like a symbol to you?” he asks.

            “Yes,” Sam says although honestly, he has no idea whether it’s a symbol or just an accident. He’s not even sure how Dean knew which blobs of blood to connect. Dean does, though. Dean’s knowledge is something Sam trusts, he just wishes he could help more.

            He’s fucked things up royally with Dean. They haven’t talked about the sex they had in the motel room but he knows—Dean _told_ him—that Dean doesn’t want him doing it. So not only did he have sex, he had it with Dean. It’s not like he even really cares about sex, per se. He likes it fine but mostly it’s just a thing that people like that he can do.

            So now he has to be really sharp and stop fucking things up. Dean doesn’t want a slave but won’t sell him because of the whole brother thing. So he has to figure out ways to make Dean comfortable and not get in trouble. He needs to be better.

            He needs to be perfect.

 

(now)

 

            He’s on the floor and he doesn’t remember falling. He’s scrabbling at the floor with his fingers, trying to breathe. He can open his mouth but his chest won’t draw air. Oh god ohgodohgod. He’s lost the edges of vision and he’s seeing sparks.

            He knows he’s panicking but can’t help it.

            He can’t breath.

            _Dean. Is Dean all right?_

 

(then)

 

            The bar where Meredith, the victim, worked has an area outside for seating. The only cities Sam knows ware New Orleans and El Paso and he has never seen much of either. Chicago isn’t like either of them. Chicago is a CITY. High rises, yellow cabs in the streets, windows lit up at night. It’s like television. He hadn’t known that the stuff on television was like this—only so much bigger, brighter. Louder. He looks at the traffic lights receding down the street. Red, red, red, red, red, and then green beyond that. He could look at it all day, those lights in the night, the strings of tail lights and headlights.

            On the outside patio of the bar, having a glass of wine, is the woman from the hotel the day before. The one who spoke Russian to him. Meg. He doesn’t know what he should say or do. He’s wearing concealer but she knows he’s a slave. He has never run into someone like this. What did free people do?

            He’s about to back up, turn around, walk away, when Meg sees him. Her face lights up. “Sam!”

            Dean looks at him, surprised.

«Привет! Приятно видеть вас снова!» Meg says. _Hey, good to see you again!_

            Dean’s eyebrows go up.

            “Meg,” Sam says, “This is Dean.”

            Dean turns the thousand watt smile on Meg although Sam is pretty sure he doesn’t really mean it. Meg doesn’t take her eyes off of Sam which honestly makes him very uncomfortable.

            “We met at the motel,” Meg says. “And now here!”

            “At the motel?” Dean says. “Which motel?”

            “Yesterday,” Meg says, “Sam was getting sodas. What, he has to report every conversation to you?”

            “No, no,” Sam says. “Um, just, um, sorry he didn’t get to meet you.”

            “What’s the, what’s that thing you’re saying,” Dean says.

            “Russian,” Meg says. “Sam’s mother tongue.”

            “Right!” Dean says, grinning, and Sam’s heart sinks. Dean is pissed. He’s not sure exactly how this is fucked up but it clearly is.

            «Мы должны подключиться, пока вы находитесь в городе. » Meg smiles. _We should hook up while you're in town._

            “Yeah.”

            “I’ll show you a hell of a time,” Meg says.

            Something about this. Something is tickling at him and he says without being sure why, “You know what, that sounds great. Why don’t you, uh—why don’t you give me your number?”

            Dean smiles at him while Meg gives him her number. Dean’s smile is not good.

            “You know what, I never got your last name,” Sam says.

            “Masters.”

            “Masters?” he confirms.

            She nods and looks at him flirtatiously. “So, you better call. I hope to see you around, Sam.”

            Inside the bar is weirdly hollow after being outside. It’s a big room with high ceilings.

            “Who the hell was she?” Dean says. Sam feels as if there is something dangerous in Dean right now.

            “I don’t really know,” Sam says, “I only met her once. Meeting up with her again? I don’t know, man, it’s weird.”

            “What’s all this Russian crap?”

            “I don’t know!” Sam says. “She was kind of drunk at the soda machine and she said something to me in Russian.”

            “You speak Russian.”

            “I told you,” Sam says, desperate.

            “Yeah, something about family,” Dean says. “We’re your family!”

            No, Sam thinks, you’re not. I’m a slave. “Sasha. Sasha was Russian. I learned it from them.”

            “Sasha.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Who is Sasha?”

            “My mom,” Sam says.

            “Your mom—” Dean cuts himself off. “You had a _mom_.”

            Sam nods. Why is having a mom bad? Because he’s a slave and they aren’t supposed to have a mom? “They raised me.”

            “Was she a slave?”

            “Yeah,” Sam says. “Illegal immigrant. Three strikes felon slave. Check fraud and something else, I don’t remember.”

            “Where are they now,” Dean asks. “Do you know?”

            Sam nods. “They’re dead.”

            “Oh.”

            “I just…I have a funny feeling about Meg.”

            A weight lifts from Dean’s face. “A feeling? Like, in your pants feeling? Or what we do feeling?”

            “What you, what we do. I thought I should research her so I pretended so she’d give me her number.”

            “Stalking is never a turn on for a girl,” Dean says. “Maybe you’re thinkin’ a little too much with your upstairs brain, huh?”

            Sam feels himself flushing. “I’m not—”

            Dean laughs and Sam realizes he’s teasing and it’s all okay again. “Okay, loverboy. I’m gonna talk to the bartender about our victim. How about I get you a beer?”

 

(now)

 

            Losing consciousness is the worst feeling ever. Sam’s vision gets dimmer, darker, everything narrows down to his desperate

            need…

            to…

            breath…

 

(then)

 

            While Dean went to research the symbol he had made out of masking tape, Sam followed Meg. He is outside a brownstone, when Dean calls.

            “Let me guess. You’re lurkin’ outside that poor girl’s apartment, aren’t you?” Dean’s tone is all lasciviousness.  

            “No,” Sam says instinctively. Dean is silent because, one, Sam already told him that he was going to follow Meg and, two, Dean is not stupid. “Yes,” Sam admits.

            “You’ve got a funny way of showin’ your affection,” Dean says.

            Sam wants to explain but there is rarely a good reason to explain and he knows, knows! That Dean is just yanking his chain.

            He puts on the snark. “Did you find anything on her or what?”

            “Sorry, man, she checks out,” Dean says. “There is a Meg Masters in the Andover phonebook. I even pulled up her high school photo. Now, look, why don’t you go knock on her door and, uh, invite her to a Russian movie, or whatever it is you do, huh?

            “What about the symbol?”

            “Yeah, that I did have some luck with that.” He can hear Dean clicking on the computer. “It’s, uh—turns out it’s Zoroastrian. Very, very old school, like two thousand years before Christ. It’s a sigil for a Daeva.”

            “What’s a Daeva?” Sam asks. The light is on in one of the windows. He wonders if it’s Meg’s. And why she was in a motel yesterday and an apartment today.

            “It translates to “demon of darkness”. Zoroastrian demons, and they’re savage, animalistic, you know, nasty attitudes—kind of like, uh, demonic pit bulls.”

            “How’d you figure that out?” Sam asks. He doesn’t know how Dean could go from a symbol to all of this.

            “Give me some credit, man,” Dean says. “I can research.”

            “Oh,” Sam says, “Sorry.”

            “Okay, I called Dad’s friend, Caleb. He told me, all right?”

            That makes Sam smile.  

            “Anyway,” Dean says, “here’s the thing—these Daevas, they have to be summoned, conjured.”

            “So, someone’s controlling it?”

            “Yeah, that’s what I’m sayin’.” He sounds a little distracted, like he’s reading. “And, from what I gather, it’s pretty risky business, too. These suckers tend to bite the hand that feeds them. And, uh, the arms, and torsos.”

            “So, what do they look like?”

            “Well, nobody knows, but nobody’s seen ‘em for a couple of millennia. I mean, summoning a demon that ancient? Someone really knows their stuff. I think we’ve got a major player in town. Now, why don’t you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?

            “Bite me,” Sam says, like he was back at the massage parlor and Dean was one of the girls.

            “No, bite her,” Dean says and he’s so pleased and amused. “Don’t leave teeth marks, though—”

            Sam is glancing up at the lit window and sees Meg enter her bedroom. She’s wearing a lacy black bra. Sam cuts the call and glances around to make sure no one is watching. Meg pulls on a t-shirt. She’s pretty, with her shiny hair and big eyes.

            Someone clears their throat. There’s a woman standing at a door behind him, a cat halfway down the steps.   The woman is looking at him and she’s annoyed. She glances up at Meg in the window and then back at him. “Pervert,” she hisses and closes the door.

            Meg leaves her apartment, now wearing a sweatshirt and jacket as well. She walks across the street, briefly glancing at the houses. Sam has ducked behind a couple of trash cans. He follows her down this street of pretty houses.

 

(now)

 

            He can breathe. His head hurts like a mother and he can’t really collect himself. Stay down. When he doesn’t know why he’s been hit, he stays down, head down, hopes they are done or don’t care.

            Someone is whispering to him, hissed and intense but his ears are still ringing. Like everything is removed. Oh man, someone has done a number.

            _Sammy. Come on, Sammy._

            He feels the floor under him. He tries to haul air in. He tries to pick his head up and everything is moving. He feels so sick he almost throws up and he goes absolutely still, eyes closed, hoping it will all stop. When he opens his eyes again he see sparks of white. Stars. He’s seeing stars. He can’t remember what happened. He closes his eyes again because that seems better and he wishes whoever was talking would just leave him the fuck alone.

            He gives in to the pain because fighting it just makes it worse. He’s learned that. Just allow yourself to feel it, it’s better than trying to ignore it.

The way with pain is through, not around.

            _Come on, Sam. Sam! Look at me. Sam, look at me._

            He knows to stay down. They just hit you more if you try to get up.

            He turns his head and everything goes wonky. Is the floor moving? Shit, does he have to get out of here because everything is moving? Just let him stay here. Just let him lay here with his eyes closed. If the whole building collapses, well, fuck it.

            He opens his eyes and now he can see Dean who is sitting on the floor with his arms behind him, leaning up against some kind of pole or something.

            _That’s it,_ Dean says, _eyes on me._

            He knows Dean is talking and he knows he’s hearing him but everything is on a goddamn delay.

            “Come on,” Dean says quietly. “On your hands and knees. You do that for me? Don’t close your eyes, Sammy. SAM!”

 

(then)

 

            Meg stops in front of a building. This side is just a wall with graffiti on it. Sam doesn’t know why she’s stopping. She glances around (missing Sam crouched behind a parked car—following is harder than it seems, he doesn’t know how he’s managed). She pulls on the wall—no, a door. It’s a door that looks as if it’s part of the wall.

            Inside, when Sam follows her, is a flight of stairs. There’s a broken down elevator, gated shut. He climbs the cage of metal that surrounds it.

            There’s a big, dimly lit room with a black altar in the middle of it.

            A black alter. A silver bowl. It’s a fucking cliché is what it is. Meg is the one. Of course. Meg opens a door. She looks small in the immensity of the room. She looks like a girl who works in a nice, modern office with her blond hair and city clothes. He doesn’t know why he surprised but she’s such a contrast with the altar. She picks up the silver bowl and swirls her finger in the liquid, saying something, a spell, an incantation. Sam has never realized before that incantation is something like a prayer. He doesn’t know the language she is using, it’s sure not Russian. But the way she says it, the roll of syllables, is like church. Not that Sam has been to church much but they went on holidays. Easter, and Christmas. Sasha, standing outside furiously smoking a holiday cigarette. Sam loved church. Sasha didn’t believe. “I was raised by communists,” they said. “There is no, what you would say, habit? No habit of prayer for me. But you, little man, you should have faith. We all have religion. Communism, family, whatever we need to believe in. God is a good thing for you.”   “I don’t think you should come,” Meg says.

            (…)

            “Because the brothers, they’re in town, I didn’t know that—”

            (…)

            “Yes, sir.”

            (…)

            “Yes, I’ll be here—waiting for you.”

 

(now)

 

            “Eyes on me,” Dean says.

            Sam stares at Dean.

            “Come on,” Dean says. “You can get up.”

            “Can’t,” Sam manages. He’s trying not to get sick because his head will just be worse.

            “You can crawl,” Dean insists.

            Sam supposes he can. He sways on shaking arms and crawls. He is seeing double. Well, more than double, lots of overlapping shadows and Deans. The floor is uneven or he is just having trouble with balance.

            “Come on, that’s it,” Dean coaxes. He’s tied up to a pillar.

            Meg. Where is Meg? At the altar. What is she doing?

            “Sam!” Dean says.

            Right. He can’t stop. Dean. Deandeandeandeandean. Dean in his too big leather jacket is looking at him, look angry but it’s not really anger, it’s need. Dean needs Sam. Dean is…tied up.

            Sam crawls to him.

            “Knife in my boot,” Dean says.

            Sam has to pull up Dean’s jean leg to expose the top of his boot and when he reaches his fingers in for the knife in a sheath inside, his fingers feel the warmth of Dean’s leg and he lets out a little sob. It’s not something he should do, should touch. It feels more intimate than sex, that touch.

            “Cut the bonds,” Dean says. “Stay with me, Sammy.”

            Sammy. Sammysammysammy.

            It’s a little knife. He should probably get boots and do the same thing. Then he wouldn’t have to reach into Dean’s boot where he has no right to reach when Dean can’t do it himself.

            He saws at the rope and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat and then Dean is free.

            Dean throws himself, not at Meg but at the altar and it topples and spills, black looking blood splashed across the floor.

            “You fucker!” Meg shouts. “You motherfucker!”

            Sam is seeing overlapping Deans and Megs and shadows and it’s like the shadows are alive. Malevolent. Wait, the shadows have detached and become things and Meg looks angry and scared.

            “Stay down!” Dean yells at Sam. Like Sam was going much of anywhere.

            The shadows are oily, sooty things that leave the air stained and the very walls tainted. They converge on Meg.

            Sam closes his eyes.

            «Мой отец заставит вас ублюдков платить!» she yells and then, «Мальчик-король! Помни меня!»

            _My father will get you. Boy king, remember me!_

            Sam doesn’t understand but really, he was doing pretty good just getting Dean loose so he doesn’t bother to try.

 

(now)

 

            Sam stands, feeling rode hard and put away wet. The city is too much for his pounding head and he has no idea what he’s just seen.

            Dean is talking to John who looks stern and sorrowful.

            “She used us to get to you,” Dean says. “She said so.”

            John nods. Sam doesn’t remember that. There’s a big chunk he doesn’t remember.

            “They know you’re after the yellow-eyed demon,” Dean says.

            “I’m close,” John says. His big black truck gleams in the city light, looking rather Satanic as far as Sam is concerned.

            “We need to split up,” Dean says. “They’ll use us to get to you.”

            John shakes his head. “You boys are beat to hell—”

            “We’ll be all right,” Dean says.

            Sam knows this isn’t right. Dean and his dad, Dean likes having his dad around. Sam isn’t sure how he feels about having John around, John makes him nervous, but he’s had owners that made him nervous before. “We should stick together,” Sam says. “You said demons are above our pay grade.”

            “Dad needs to go to ground,” Dean says.

            John crosses the length of sidewalk in big strides and to Sam’s surprise, hugs Sam. His arms are hard and feel good, even as the embrace jars Sam’s aching head. “I have you back,” John whispers. “I put you in danger before. Now I need you to stay with Dean. I need you to be okay.”

            Sam can feel himself shaking. He is afraid he is going to cry. To his further surprise, when John pulls back, John’s eyes are full of tears.

            “Okay,” Sam whispers. “I’ll try, sir.”

            “You be careful, son.”

            Dean gets his own hug. Sam can hear John say, “You’re good with him. Take care of both of yourselves.”

            “Yes sir,” Dean says.

            “I’ll send money,” John says. “For the lawyer, to, you know.”

            “To take care of Sammy,” Dean says.

            “Yeah,” John says. “Take care of that.”


End file.
